


Nothing But Time

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alcohol, Awkward Conversations, Hypnotism, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Old Men Having Feelings, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 03:50:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10563106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “So,” Stan says, as Ford touches the lit tip of a match to a candle, “what were you thinkin’ about when I asked you if you had something to tell me?”Ford’s hand slips. “Nothing."Stan’s having some trouble with his memories; Ford thinks he has a solution.





	

Stan jolts awake, and for a dizzying second, he expects to find Deb on the edge of the bed, the way she always was: Hunched over, pale, her dirty blonde hair unfurling over her shoulders. That smoker laugh, that wild smile. Instead, there is a row of photographs and letters taped to the wall. Mabel and Dipper. Ford. Himself. Soos, and Wendy, and glittery stars connecting them all. Stan bites his knuckles.

“Bad dreams?” Ford asks, scaring the hell out of Stan. 

“Shit – uh. No. Hey. Why’re you awake?” Now that Stan’s a little more oriented, he can take in the dull early-morning lighting – not that that accounts for much, this far north – and the lantern by which Ford is apparently working at his desk.

Ford turns his chair a little more to properly face Stan. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says. “Memories?”

“Ehh.” Stan scrubs at his face. Deb had kept her nails long, had scratched his back. She’d been loud, picked fights, made up easy, laughed at every little thing. It’d been good while it lasted; it ended badly. “Yeah.” 

Ford doesn’t speak for a minute; Stan’s still not all there, his body stuck in the fuzzy haze she’d left him in, the dull anger and pain, the stress, the loneliness. He’d gone gambling. He’d ended up –

“I’ve been doing some research,” Ford says, a little tentative, the way he talks about Weirdmageddon, the way he talks about Stan, when he’s trying to be kind. Stan lifts his head and is surprised to find Ford still studying him. “Regarding hypnotic techniques. I believe there’s some therapeutic value to be had, there. That is to say – I think we could get more of your memories back, without the resulting…”

Stan waits for him to finish.

“Without the mental stress,” he finishes. 

“Hypnosis,” Stan says.

Ford nods. “However,” he says, a little more delicately; Stan wonders what will happen to Ford’s voice when he reaches maximum delicacy, if it will begin to crack or if it will become wispy and then disappear. “However,” he says, again, “I don’t want to pursue that unless you’re sure you can trust me.”

That’s an odd thing to say. Stan’s always trusted Ford, would’ve trusted him in a heartbeat even at his worst. “What, I can’t? You got something to tell me?” he says.

It’s a joke, but Ford’s body closes a little – would be a defensive posture if Ford wasn’t minding himself so much. “Not that relates to this,” he says, “or any matter that would change how you feel about me. I – think. I hope.”

Stan is too tired to unpack that. He scrubs his face. “Whatever,” he says. “If you think it’ll work, let’s try it.”

*

“So,” Stan says, as Ford touches the lit tip of a match to a candle, “what were you thinkin’ about when I asked you if you had something to tell me?”

Ford’s hand slips. “Nothing."

Stan laughs. “So you _did_ screw a gnome.”

“Stanley…”

“Gnomes? Don’t they got a whole, I dunno, group mating thing? I didn’t wanna ask for more details, to be honest.” 

“I did not have sex with the gnomes,” Ford says, flatly, truthfully, unless he’s become a better liar in the last couple of days. “But the fact that you keep bringing that up concerns me.” 

Stan laughs, harder than he normally would because he’s – maybe – just a little – nervous. “C’mon. What’d you think of? Bet it’s a funny story. Help me relax.”

He doesn’t like the way Ford’s face closes at that. “No,” he says. “Maybe later.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “So you got the mood lighting, I got my old man nest, what else do we need?”

“Nothing but time,” Ford says. He goes to the porthole and drops the makeshift curtain down, though Stan doesn’t really see the point; it’s dark as hell, the darkness more complete with only the one lit candle to see by. Ford goes to Stan and kneels on the bed in front of him, bringing the candle with him. “Now,” he says. “You’re sure you’re ready?” 

Stan nods, though the more Ford qualifies and quibbles and asks, the less ready Stan feels. He resists the urge to reach out and touch Ford’s hand. He’s not a baby. It’s fine. Ford will rummage around in his head, dig out some old memories, and they’ll call it a night. Might break out some beer afterwards, to shake it off.

Ford clears his throat. “Alright,” he says. “Focus on the flame.”

“Focusing.” 

“Watch the flame as it flickers…” Ford’s voice deepens and steadies, filling the dark space. “Let the flame and the sound of my voice bring you into a deep state of relaxation. Take a slow, deep breath in…now, let it out…as you do, you feel your limbs begin to loosen and grow heavy…” 

Stan doesn’t think it’s working, really, though he is beginning to relax. He listens to the steady drone of Ford’s voice, and watches the candle, and lets himself drift, drift –

Then, as if from far away, Ford says something in another language, and Stan’s mind goes still, a deep and quiet pool, like nothing he’s ever experienced. He’s not alarmed. He’s not anything, really.

“Lift your hand,” Ford says. 

Stan does.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

“Good,” Stan says, which is the most accurate answer. The soft orange glow of the candle flickers on Ford in curves; the shadows follow, stark black, sinuous. 

“That’s good,” Ford says. “Now…” He trails off. In the silence, Stan’s mind stretches out; his body is relaxed, unencumbered. He watches the light move against Ford’s skin. “You told me once,” he says, “that you had to chew your way out of the trunk of a car. Do you remember that?” 

_I’ve been to prison in three different countries – I’ve got a mullet – what do I do –_

“’Course,” he says. “Then I shoved you into the portal.” 

“Oh,” Ford says. “No, not that. Do you remember being in the trunk of the car?” 

Stan does. It was dark there, too. The dirty rubber smell of the trunk mixed with his sweat in a way that still makes his heart race to remember; the air was tight, close, hot. He’d cried, until he remembered that wouldn’t get him anywhere. He’d begged for help, for mercy. Then, he’d realized he was alone. Alone, like he’d always been. Not always – since he’d fucked up. Since then. And he’d die alone if he didn’t get out. No one was coming for him. So he’d flexed his arms against the ropes the way he’d learned to do; he’d banged around in the dark, until his shoulders hit the back of the seat, and he realized it was soft, that if he was quiet and careful and quick –

– he remembers the euphoria of finally, _finally_ seeing a few tiny rays of summer sunshine, and it had looked almost like the candlelight looks on Ford, now.

He reaches out and touches the back of Ford’s hand, wanting to touch the light, really, more than Ford.

“Stanley.” 

“Hm?” 

“The car,” he says. “Who put you – “

Stan slides his fingertips along the back of Ford’s hand, slowly, tracing the flickering light. He waits for Ford to finish his question, but Ford doesn’t finish, just sits there as Stan traces his way up to the cuff of Ford’s sweater.

“Stop,” Ford says. 

Stan stops.

“The car,” he says, with more force, a tiny ripple in Stan’s mind. “Who put you in there?”

Stan tells him.

*

“What do you think?” Ford says, later. His back is to Stan; he is fishing through some drawers for a bottle opener. 

“It was…” Nice. Calming. Weird as anything. “I dunno. It worked, didn’t it?” 

Ford’s passed over the bottle opener twice, now; Stan knows it’s in that drawer, near the back. Like hell Ford doesn’t know that, too. “But do you feel – are you alright with what happened? That is, with what you told me?”

Stan shrugs. “I told you I trust you, man. You gonna open those or what?”

Ford mysteriously finds the bottle opener, then, and smiles at Stan, _almost_ sheepish. Stan frowns. “I suppose,” he says, “the two of us should keep fewer secrets, anyway.”

“Uh huh,” Stan says. He squints. The caps crack, one after another; the beer hisses. Ford steps over to the booth and slides in across from Stan, handing Stan’s over.

Stan’ll file that one away.

*

The stillness stretches in Stan.

The shadows flicker. He can see the orange light moving in Ford’s hair, against his glasses, his nose, his lips. Ford opens and shuts his left hand against his knee, a nervous tic, though he does it in a slow, controlled way. Stan watches the tendons in his hand flex with each new coiling of his fingers.

“What,” Ford says, “are you thinking about?” 

“You look weird,” Stan says. 

Ford’s hand goes still. “Ah.”

“Good weird,” Stan clarifies. He reaches out and rests the tip of his index finger on one of Ford’s tendons, watches as it dips under the pressure of his touch. Ford swallows, loudly enough that Stan can hear it. 

Slowly, he turns his hand over, offering it to Stan. “Do you want to touch me?” he asks, very quietly.

“Yeah.” Stan traces the lines of Ford’s palm, slowly, then rests his hand over Ford’s, letting his weight settle there, and the heat of their palms warm each other’s fingers. “’Course I do. I love you. You’re my brother.”

Ford flinches. He takes his hand away, gently. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Stan is patient. Finally, Ford clears his throat. “You told me,” he says, “about selling watches in Missouri…”

*

“Listen,” Stan says, the next morning, while Ford is mending a net. “About last night…”

Ford doesn’t pause his work. “Yes?”

“I know I, uh…mighta been intense. I didn’t – I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just…I mean, that’s what it is, y’know?”

“I know,” Ford says. “I love you, too, Stanley. I hope you know that.” 

“Hell,” Stan says. “Forget I said anything. You shmoopy bastard.” 

That gets a laugh out of Ford, and finally makes him lift his head. “Well, excuse me,” he says. He’s grinning, but there’s something a little off about it – nervous, maybe, or just awkward. Stan’s not sure when they last told each other they love each other. Hell, Stan probably looks a little off, too. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“Nope,” Stan says. “Hard pass.”

They laugh; Stan gets back to work. Later, Ford ducks into the control room, to check his radars. As he does, Stan thinks of the way Ford asked, _do you want to touch me? –_ thinks of the way Ford flinched – of Ford with his back to Stan, finding any excuse to not look at him – of all the hundred little things that could add up to nothing, if they’re as meaningless as Stan’s taken them for.

He’s not sure that they are.

*

“Hey,” Stan says, as Ford taps the match box open. “Before you do the…thing.”

“Hm?”

“If I…I mean.” Stan scratches the back of his neck. “You don’t gotta stop me if I…” He hadn’t expected this to be so difficult. He clears his throat. Ford is probably staring at him like he’s an idiot, but Stan’s none the wiser, studying the picture of him and Ford at first launch. Big smiles. Their arms loped around each other’s shoulders. “It kinda helps to, uh, touch you. Y’know, your hand.” 

“Ah,” Ford says. Stan keeps staring at the two of them, letting Ford work out whatever he’s gottta work out. “I see,” he says, finally. “Alright.”

The match spits; Ford lights the candle. The smell of the burnt match makes Stan’s nose itch.

This time, when Stan goes under, the first thing Ford does is offer his hand. “Take my hand,” he says.

Stan does, in both of his. He cups it, and begins to stroke the back of Ford’s hand with his thumb, watching the way the candlelight intersects there, making them seem indistinct. Time dilates. Ford shifts and makes a soft noise in the back of his throat; Stan looks up.

“I want to…” Ford stops. Stan waits, patient, quiet, not quite _gone,_ but not really there, either, a vessel for Ford’s suggestions. Ford bends down, and blows out the candle.

The darkness swallows them. Stan waits, still stroking Ford’s hand with his thumb, back and forth.

Ford takes Stan’s hands and lifts them. When the tips of Stan’s fingertips brush his jaw, Ford says, “Touch me.”

Stan lets his hands slide up Ford’s jaw, his cheeks. His stubble prickles Stan’s skin. A part of him, faraway and quiet, wonders if he’s doing this the way Ford wants; the rest of him simply obeys, slowly palming the lines of Ford’s face, letting his fingers ruffle through Ford’s sideburns and hair. He finds the rough lines of Ford’s eyebrows and traces them.

When he traces down Ford’s nose, to his mouth, he can feel the warm puff of Ford’s breath against his skin, quick, shallow. Ford’s lips open under Stan’s touch; the wet promise of his mouth dampens Stan’s fingertips, but before Stan can touch his tongue, Ford says, _no._

Stan lets his hand slide away, back to palming his cheeks, his jaw. Sliding through his hair. Down his neck.

He becomes aware, slowly, of the smell of Ford, a clean sweat-smell, and something sharper under that.

“Lay down,” Ford says, his voice thin. Stan does, curling forward so he’s laying with his head resting on the bed against Ford’s thigh. There’s not much room for him to lay any other way, unless he gets on the floor, and Ford didn’t say that. “Fuck,” Ford whispers. The smell of him is stronger, here. Ford shifts; the loose metallic tinkle of his belt buckle drifts up into the quiet room. Stan doesn’t mind. “Stanley – I – I can’t – “

It’s not a command or a question, so Stan doesn’t answer. He waits.

Suddenly, Ford touches him blindly, fumbling at Stan’s face, his shoulder. “Your hand,” Ford says. “Give me your – “

Stan lifts his hand. This time, when Ford clasps it, his hand is clammy, hot. Stan brings it to his face and kisses it, though Ford hasn’t told him to. It feels – right.

Ford groans, the sound loud in the still room. His hand clenches against Stan’s.

Then, Ford yanks his hand away. He stands. Stan listens to his boots snap against the floor. The door opens, letting in pale blue light, then shuts again.

Stan stays where he is, drifting. He can still smell Ford on the sheets, in the air.

He waits.

The door opens, letting in light, and Ford. He lingers there, indecisive – then snaps his fingers. Stan jolts back into himself. Ford steps back over the threshold and shuts the door.

Stan sits up. He rubs his palm against his knee, thinking hard.

*

Ford, to Stan’s surprise, is sitting in the kitchen. He’s not surprised that Ford is drinking, or that Ford doesn’t look up when he comes in.

Stan’s got two options: He can do it the Pines way, and pretend they both don’t know what happened, and they can go back to the way they were. Or he can handle this like an adult and actually try to talk to Ford. Neither of them are what Stan wants. What he wants is to grab a fistful of Ford’s hair and shove him into the booth, wants to kiss the taste of alcohol out of his mouth.

That wouldn’t be so bad, probably.

Stan sighs, and slides into the booth across from Ford. “Gonna share with the class?” he asks.

Ford offers him the bottle. It’s whiskey, cheap. Stan’s had worse. He takes a drink, but doesn’t pass it over again, just kinda keeps it on his side and runs his thumb along the rim of the bottle. “Listen,” Ford says, “about – “

“Shh-shh-shh. Drinking time.” 

Ford folds his hands on the table. Stan takes another drink, and decides that’s made him brave enough to actually look into Ford’s face. Doesn’t tell him much; Ford is studiously looking at the table, his brow furrowed.

Stan sighs. “So,” he says. “Do you remember junior year, it was…I dunno, ‘round winter, but before Christmas. And I’d been getting pretty serious with Carla. Wouldn’t shut up about her?”

Ford’s finally looking at him; his face is a little flushed from the whiskey, but he’s not looking constipated, anymore, just confused. Stan’ll take it.

“I remember,” Stan continues, “that fight we had about it, because I wouldn’t shut up about her, and you…I dunno, you were jealous or whatever – “

“I was never – “

Stan holds his hand up. Ford, to his amazement, stops talking. Stan takes another drink, and finally passes the bottle over to Ford. “Maybe we were both stressed because Pops was…well, y’know. Holidays at the Pines house.” Ford lifts the bottle in a salute. “There’s something I…never told you about. I mean, about any of that. Me and Carla.” He drums his fingers on the table; it’s his turn to avoid looking at Ford. “Not just that. Me and you, too.”

There’s still time, Stan thinks. He can still make a non-specific excuse and get out and pretend they were both too drunk to be held accountable for their actions, though he’s just got a light buzz going.

“Thing is,” Stan says, and trails off. “Thing is…” The truth stays there, stuck in his throat. Not drunk enough for that, apparently. As it turns out, it’s harder to say things when all of his emotions are intact, ugly and complex and old. “Look, just – I – if you wanna – if you’re into – I mean…yeah.” 

There. Not bad. Ford should be able to fill in the gaps. Stan scrubs at his face, lets his hand slide to the back of his neck. Ford doesn’t speak. Stan listens to the subtle sloshing of the bottle as Ford takes another drink.

Then, Ford reaches across the table, and pats Stan’s hand. For a wild second, Stan thinks Ford’s gonna lurch across the table, or – hell, he doesn’t know what – but instead, Ford takes his hand away again. “Your storytelling thrills and amazes,” he says, flatly.

It takes Stan a second to process that – to process all of this, what it means for them – and then he throws his head back and laughs. Relief floods through him, sweet as anything.

*

Stan’s heart is beating hard as Ford lights the candle. They meet each other’s gaze over the orange glow. 

“Focus on the flame,” Ford says, “and the sound of my voice.” 


End file.
